The Ratcatchers
by Brendan Gisby
Genre: Fantasy/Sci-Fi
Swearwords: None.
Description: Some rats are smarter than others. (An excerpt from the author's acclaimed novel, The Island of Whispers.)
_____________________________________________________________________
The small dog sprang effortlessly up to the jetty. It remained there, surveying the island, sniffing in the scents of this strange, new territory. Its owner stepped up from the boat to join the dog in its scrutiny. The man was tall and lean and slightly stooped. The wind coming from the east tugged at his mane of grey hair and sent billows running through his loose overalls and shabby green jacket. An unlit pipe protruded from his close-cropped silvery beard.
Skilfully, the man struck a match and placed it in the bowl of the pipe, alternately sucking hard on the newly glowing embers and exhaling great puffs of thick smoke, which were immediately snatched up and dispersed by the wind. The man kept his gaze on the island, exploring the contours, seeking out movement. His eyes were also grey, and hooded like a bird’s. His face bore a calmness, an expression that said: I’ve seen it all before; there are no surprises left. Unhurriedly, he set off for the footpath on his right. His height dwarfed the dog, which now trotted lightly behind him, its nose pointing close to the ground.
As he walked, the canvas bag which hung from the man’s angular shoulders swayed and rattled in the breeze. Although it was shaped like a plumber’s satchel, Tam Proudfoot’s bag contained only the paraphernalia of his particular trade: a large torch; an array of traps with strong steel springs and deadly shutters; poisons of all kinds, in bottles, tins and small cardboard boxes; and foul-smelling offal, wrapped in Clingfilm and kept in an old biscuit tin. The tools of the rat-catcher’s trade were crude and simple, but always effective.
Tam reached the gun emplacement, climbed the rocks at its rear and then stepped down on to its roof. The little Jack Russell terrier sped past him, anxious to inspect the bird remains scattered over the roof. Another gull had fallen victim to the rats during the night. Tam’s examination of the carcasses was much less thorough than the dog’s close-up sniff. He sucked on the pipe again, looking out to the swelling sea, a hint of humour in his eyes. The visitors to Inchgarvie the day before had returned to spread alarm in the community about the hundreds of fierce rats which infested the island. He had lived here all his life; rats were his business. The story, he knew, was exaggerated. Not deliberately, of course, but magnified as usual by peoples’ natural horror of the creatures. There were rats on the island, that was true; but he was confident that they, too, were visitors, not inhabitants. Tam took a final pull at the pipe and then slid the heavy bag to his feet.
‘Right, Nipper!’ he shouted to the dog. ‘Let’s dae our job!’
Tam went to the edge of the roof and crouched down. He was now directly above the building’s entrance. The stale, damp smell which rose up on the breeze confirmed the dankness within. Tam placed his hand on the flat of Nipper’s head.
‘Down there, boy,’ he said, using his other hand to point at the ground outside the entrance.
The dog understood. It leapt from the roof, landing lightly and twisting round to face the entrance.
‘In there, boy!’ Tam shouted. ‘In there, Nipper!’
Ears pricked, tensed, the dog stepped cautiously into the gloomy interior. Tam stood back from the edge. After a short period of silence, the place erupted suddenly in a cacophony of loud yelps, squeals and fierce growling. Rats began to spring from the slit holes, scrambling up to the roof and then bounding away to the safety of the rocks. Tam counted four fleeing bodies. The yapping from below had subsided, but the growls persisted. He looked down to see Nipper emerging backwards from the building, a fifth rat caught by the neck between the dog’s small, powerful jaws. Nipper shook the rat violently, hammering its struggling body repeatedly against the ground. The squirming ceased abruptly as life went out of the creature.
‘Here, boy!’ called Tam. ‘Up here, wee boy!’
Nipper carried the prize up to the roof, dropped it at Tam’s feet, and then danced and yelped with delight.
‘Good boy, Nipper,’ said Tam as he stooped down and picked up the limp rat by its tail.
He peered at the body. Black, he remarked to himself. Not like the local ones. Better fed, too. Probably from some ship that’s been to foreign parts. West Africa, maybe, or the Mediterranean. A visitor, right enough. With a sudden heave, he tossed the rat far out into the sea.
Tam chuckled as he set about his next task. ‘Hundreds o’ rats!’ he laughed.
He knelt down and selected four traps from the bag, together with the biscuit tin. Warning the dog to stay back, he placed the traps at intervals along the roof. He returned to each trap, priming it with a chunk of pungent offal and carefully setting its stiff shutter. Carrying the bag in one hand and the tin of bait in the other, he left the roof and entered the gun emplacement. Nipper followed him, but kept at a discrete distance.
Tam crouched down again, placing both bag and tin on the ground. He pulled the heavy torch from the bag and snapped it on. The solid beam cut through the darkness, revealing rubble, cobwebs, dried bird droppings, some feathers, but little else. Tam nodded. The absence of a nest confirmed his theory about the rats’ origins. He tossed the last piece of offal into the centre of the building and then covered it with the contents of a box of poison pellets.
With the torch and bait tin stowed away, and with the bag slung back on his shoulder, Tam stepped out of the gloom.
‘That’ll do it for the now,’ he said to the waiting dog.
The rat-catcher re-lit his pipe, stood puffing for some moments and then returned slowly to the jetty. The tiny dog pranced playfully at his heels.
As the noise of the rat-catcher’s boat became a distant drone, the Watchers at the top of the island relaxed only slightly. Danger still lurked in the rocks below. The Scavengers were well concealed down there, but they could re-emerge at any moment.
Twisted Foot and Long Ears had left the underworld at dawn. Shortly afterwards, they had watched the events unfold at the gun emplacement, this time without the noisy accompaniment of the Two-Legs on the bridge. With its resounding cry and strange, mottled coat, the Four-Legs held them mesmerised. Neither had seen a creature like it before. The ferocity of its attack on the slave-rat was something that they would not forget easily.
The Watchers now tried to concentrate on the lower part of the slope leading to the gun emplacement, but the tantalising smell of offal, carried up to them on the wind, kept drawing their attention back to the building’s roof. The food left by the Two-Legs puzzled them. Whatever its purpose, though, however enticing it seemed, they regarded its presence with significant mistrust.
The Scavengers were not so sceptical. One by one, lured by the pungent scent, their small dark heads appeared above the rocks. All four moved forward stealthily until they crouched together on the edge of the roof. After some moments of hesitation, the bravest (or greediest) of them darted to the first of the traps and snatched at the bait. The bait would not give. The Scavenger tugged again. This time the trap’s shutter hammered down with a loud, sharp crack, crushing the Scavenger’s neck and driving a steel spike through the back of its brain. The others fled from the roof. It was not long, though, before they were back again, first devouring the offal that had eluded their dead companion and then moving on to examine the next trap. In seconds, another victim had been claimed, and the process began again. On this occasion, despite the more cautious, joint approach of the two survivors, a swift double-kill was scored by the snapping shutter.
The young Watchers had flinched each time a trap shut. For a long time afterwards, they gazed down on the corpses of the fugitives, still marvelling at the cunning and treachery of the Two-Legs, equally astounded by the utter foolishness of the Scavengers. The excitement was now over; the immediate danger gone. Another long day on the outside world loomed ahead of them.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Some rats are smarter than others. (An excerpt from the author's acclaimed novel, The Island of Whispers.)
_____________________________________________________________________
The small dog sprang effortlessly up to the jetty. It remained there, surveying the island, sniffing in the scents of this strange, new territory. Its owner stepped up from the boat to join the dog in its scrutiny. The man was tall and lean and slightly stooped. The wind coming from the east tugged at his mane of grey hair and sent billows running through his loose overalls and shabby green jacket. An unlit pipe protruded from his close-cropped silvery beard.
Skilfully, the man struck a match and placed it in the bowl of the pipe, alternately sucking hard on the newly glowing embers and exhaling great puffs of thick smoke, which were immediately snatched up and dispersed by the wind. The man kept his gaze on the island, exploring the contours, seeking out movement. His eyes were also grey, and hooded like a bird’s. His face bore a calmness, an expression that said: I’ve seen it all before; there are no surprises left. Unhurriedly, he set off for the footpath on his right. His height dwarfed the dog, which now trotted lightly behind him, its nose pointing close to the ground.
As he walked, the canvas bag which hung from the man’s angular shoulders swayed and rattled in the breeze. Although it was shaped like a plumber’s satchel, Tam Proudfoot’s bag contained only the paraphernalia of his particular trade: a large torch; an array of traps with strong steel springs and deadly shutters; poisons of all kinds, in bottles, tins and small cardboard boxes; and foul-smelling offal, wrapped in Clingfilm and kept in an old biscuit tin. The tools of the rat-catcher’s trade were crude and simple, but always effective.
Tam reached the gun emplacement, climbed the rocks at its rear and then stepped down on to its roof. The little Jack Russell terrier sped past him, anxious to inspect the bird remains scattered over the roof. Another gull had fallen victim to the rats during the night. Tam’s examination of the carcasses was much less thorough than the dog’s close-up sniff. He sucked on the pipe again, looking out to the swelling sea, a hint of humour in his eyes. The visitors to Inchgarvie the day before had returned to spread alarm in the community about the hundreds of fierce rats which infested the island. He had lived here all his life; rats were his business. The story, he knew, was exaggerated. Not deliberately, of course, but magnified as usual by peoples’ natural horror of the creatures. There were rats on the island, that was true; but he was confident that they, too, were visitors, not inhabitants. Tam took a final pull at the pipe and then slid the heavy bag to his feet.
‘Right, Nipper!’ he shouted to the dog. ‘Let’s dae our job!’
Tam went to the edge of the roof and crouched down. He was now directly above the building’s entrance. The stale, damp smell which rose up on the breeze confirmed the dankness within. Tam placed his hand on the flat of Nipper’s head.
‘Down there, boy,’ he said, using his other hand to point at the ground outside the entrance.
The dog understood. It leapt from the roof, landing lightly and twisting round to face the entrance.
‘In there, boy!’ Tam shouted. ‘In there, Nipper!’
Ears pricked, tensed, the dog stepped cautiously into the gloomy interior. Tam stood back from the edge. After a short period of silence, the place erupted suddenly in a cacophony of loud yelps, squeals and fierce growling. Rats began to spring from the slit holes, scrambling up to the roof and then bounding away to the safety of the rocks. Tam counted four fleeing bodies. The yapping from below had subsided, but the growls persisted. He looked down to see Nipper emerging backwards from the building, a fifth rat caught by the neck between the dog’s small, powerful jaws. Nipper shook the rat violently, hammering its struggling body repeatedly against the ground. The squirming ceased abruptly as life went out of the creature.
‘Here, boy!’ called Tam. ‘Up here, wee boy!’
Nipper carried the prize up to the roof, dropped it at Tam’s feet, and then danced and yelped with delight.
‘Good boy, Nipper,’ said Tam as he stooped down and picked up the limp rat by its tail.
He peered at the body. Black, he remarked to himself. Not like the local ones. Better fed, too. Probably from some ship that’s been to foreign parts. West Africa, maybe, or the Mediterranean. A visitor, right enough. With a sudden heave, he tossed the rat far out into the sea.
Tam chuckled as he set about his next task. ‘Hundreds o’ rats!’ he laughed.
He knelt down and selected four traps from the bag, together with the biscuit tin. Warning the dog to stay back, he placed the traps at intervals along the roof. He returned to each trap, priming it with a chunk of pungent offal and carefully setting its stiff shutter. Carrying the bag in one hand and the tin of bait in the other, he left the roof and entered the gun emplacement. Nipper followed him, but kept at a discrete distance.
Tam crouched down again, placing both bag and tin on the ground. He pulled the heavy torch from the bag and snapped it on. The solid beam cut through the darkness, revealing rubble, cobwebs, dried bird droppings, some feathers, but little else. Tam nodded. The absence of a nest confirmed his theory about the rats’ origins. He tossed the last piece of offal into the centre of the building and then covered it with the contents of a box of poison pellets.
With the torch and bait tin stowed away, and with the bag slung back on his shoulder, Tam stepped out of the gloom.
‘That’ll do it for the now,’ he said to the waiting dog.
The rat-catcher re-lit his pipe, stood puffing for some moments and then returned slowly to the jetty. The tiny dog pranced playfully at his heels.
As the noise of the rat-catcher’s boat became a distant drone, the Watchers at the top of the island relaxed only slightly. Danger still lurked in the rocks below. The Scavengers were well concealed down there, but they could re-emerge at any moment.
Twisted Foot and Long Ears had left the underworld at dawn. Shortly afterwards, they had watched the events unfold at the gun emplacement, this time without the noisy accompaniment of the Two-Legs on the bridge. With its resounding cry and strange, mottled coat, the Four-Legs held them mesmerised. Neither had seen a creature like it before. The ferocity of its attack on the slave-rat was something that they would not forget easily.
The Watchers now tried to concentrate on the lower part of the slope leading to the gun emplacement, but the tantalising smell of offal, carried up to them on the wind, kept drawing their attention back to the building’s roof. The food left by the Two-Legs puzzled them. Whatever its purpose, though, however enticing it seemed, they regarded its presence with significant mistrust.
The Scavengers were not so sceptical. One by one, lured by the pungent scent, their small dark heads appeared above the rocks. All four moved forward stealthily until they crouched together on the edge of the roof. After some moments of hesitation, the bravest (or greediest) of them darted to the first of the traps and snatched at the bait. The bait would not give. The Scavenger tugged again. This time the trap’s shutter hammered down with a loud, sharp crack, crushing the Scavenger’s neck and driving a steel spike through the back of its brain. The others fled from the roof. It was not long, though, before they were back again, first devouring the offal that had eluded their dead companion and then moving on to examine the next trap. In seconds, another victim had been claimed, and the process began again. On this occasion, despite the more cautious, joint approach of the two survivors, a swift double-kill was scored by the snapping shutter.
The young Watchers had flinched each time a trap shut. For a long time afterwards, they gazed down on the corpses of the fugitives, still marvelling at the cunning and treachery of the Two-Legs, equally astounded by the utter foolishness of the Scavengers. The excitement was now over; the immediate danger gone. Another long day on the outside world loomed ahead of them.
About the Author
Brendan Gisby is McStoryteller-in-Residence. He's the author of three novels, three biographies and several short story collections.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar at http://the4bs.weebly.com.
And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar at http://the4bs.weebly.com.
And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.